Remember When It Rained
by SilverStarsAndMoons
Summary: There are few stories, currently, that deal with what happens when Emma's mysophobia causes conflict in her relationship with Will. This story explores how they both deal with her illness when there's no patience left. One-shot.


It's not like it was planned; who plans to break from their natural rhythms? And it's not that he didn't understand, because if anyone understands what she goes through, it's Will.

But you can't be understanding all the time. No one is a saint. And she supposes, if she'd thought about it hard enough, eventually her charming little annoyances would turn into problems that would split their relationship. She just didn't want to go there in her mind – didn't want to admit that it could happen to them, too.

Mysophobia is a charming little condition dealing with the fear of germs. Coupled with OCD, Emma Pillsbury leads a very cautious life. There's a lot of wiping, cleaning, disinfecting, careful brushing. And normally, it fits well with her personality; she's cautious herself. She doesn't like surprises. She needs life to be sanitized, because it's too hard to deal with otherwise. And in this way, she masks a lot of emotions that have the power to overwhelm her.

In fact, if you asked Emma, she would tell you that emotions, for her, are like messes – they're unpredictable; they're everywhere, and they take twice as long to set to rights as a well-organized house. Dirt is the enemy, and so are tears.

So, with that in mind, she fell in love with Will Schuester and then all bets were off. No one makes her feel like he can. A simple smile; a faraway gaze – the way he takes her hand, the way he holds her close. It's okay to let go with him, to show him more of herself, of her fears. It's okay, that is, until it's not.

Everyone has their breaking point. No one can be perfect all the time. And sometimes it's the last straw that really breaks the camel's back, that really makes you realize the depth of feeling that you may have for someone else, and that they may have for you.

Exasperation is not hate for the person exhibiting the condition. Exasperation is the hate for the condition itself, and what it does to the person you love.

//~//

It started on a rainy Sunday night. She was making dinner for him, and he was watching TV in the other room. It was an odd, tense night; he'd been told by Figgins that Glee would be over if they didn't place at Regionals. She didn't know how to deal with him in this mood, and wondered briefly how Terri felt when he wouldn't look at her, wouldn't speak to her, and barely kissed her hello.

So she hid in the kitchen, poking her red head out every so often to ask him a tentative question.

"Did you want some coffee, Will?"

"No," he grunted, turning his face more to the television, where some stupid sitcom was playing. If Emma knew him better in all his moods, she would have known that this was her cue to stop talking and just leave him alone for an hour. He would come around, especially after he got some food into his belly. However, she didn't know this about him, because their relationship is new, and living together is new, and she isn't always quick on the uptake when someone's only shown compassion, understanding, and warmth to you so far.

So she kept pressing. "Lovely day, wasn't it?"

"Not that I noticed," he scowled, pulling a pillow into his chest and spreading his legs wider on the couch. "Em, I'm trying to watch this."

He'd been snappy on the way home, too. She'd cleaned the door handles of the car, as usual, and he'd gotten peevish. "You touched them this morning and you cleaned them then, too. Come on, Em, who do you think has touched them since you?"

She'd just stared down at her wipes, shaken momentarily out of her happy buzz that she always gets when she cleans, when she's completing her routine.

"Um, I guess, really no one has?" Her voice had gone up at the end, in a question, and he'd scowled.

"Come on, please," he'd said, as if he was speaking to a particularly annoying student. "It's been a long day; you've got to be tired, too."

His voice hadn't softened but she abandoned her cleaning to sit in the car with him and stare dreamily out the window. As they drove home, she chattered without abandon, as per usual; she'd had three guidance appointments with different members of the Glee club for course selection next year and she thought he'd be interested to hear where his students were choosing to go with their academics.

He'd said nothing, and when he did, it was a brusque, "That's cool, Em, but shouldn't you be keeping that stuff confidential?"

Again, she'd been shocked into silence, and she looked down at her hands in her lap, twisting in embarrassment. Did he think she didn't know her job? What was this attitude?

So she had stood up for herself, trying to keep her voice steady, but a tremble accompanied her words. "I thought you'd be interested to hear about your students. You know, the ones you care so much about."

He heard the tremble in her voice, and while that was normally cause for him to take her hand, or to rub her shoulders, or to even give her a hug, and try to figure out why she was upset, today he just turned away, and she turned her eyes towards the window, trying to blink back the hurt tears that threatened to spill down her face.

They'd entered the apartment in silence and she'd immediately gone to the bathroom, trying to dab the slight smearing of her mascara away so that he wouldn't know she was upset. She heard the TV flick on and the sound of his shoes hitting the front hall closet door, and then she scowled, a rare expression on her face.

"Will," she said, her voice for once strident, "don't throw your shoes at the closet door, please!"

He didn't say anything, but he got up from the couch and placed them deliberately inside the closet.

"Sorry." His voice was surly. She said nothing else.

She tried to give him time to cool down; she cut vegetables for a salad and listened to the rain starting up outside the kitchen window. The canned laughter of the studio audience on the TV began to get on her nerves, and she began to chop harder, to try to drown out the tension, the mundane sound of a couple who'd had a bad day.

And as she chopped, she stopped paying attention to what she was doing, so it really wasn't a surprise when instead of chopped carrots in a row on the cutting board, she was looking at a gash in her slim left index finger, and blood beginning to seep onto the counter.

She cried out; not loudly, but enough that Will heard her from the living room and raised his head.

"Em? You okay in there?"

She didn't answer, and he got up off the couch, walking towards the kitchen. "Emma?"

He found her sitting on the floor of the tiny apartment kitchen, a towel wrapped tightly around her finger, her face dead white, her eyes closed. Her mouth gaped open; her legs folded awkwardly under her, and he dropped to his knees in front of her, his face paling as well.

"Emma? Sweetheart? What happened?"

This was the Will she knew. She engaged, her eyes slowly opening, coming back into focus, but her voice was shaky, and all she could get out was, "Blood everywhere," before she had to swallow a gag and close her eyes again.

He noticed the slight splash of blood on the counter and gently took hold of the hand wrapped in the towel. "Did you cut yourself?"

He opened the towel to find her poor finger almost purple from loss of circulation . . . and a small cut, about the size of a paper cut, on the tip.

"Em, it's okay, it's not deep. The bleeding's stopped."

She refused to open her eyes, and he shook her a little. "Em, please look at me."

"I can't, Will," she said, her voice beginning to shake dangerously. "I can't do it."

At this point, he would have engaged her; asked her what it was she couldn't do, asked her what he could do to help. And the night would have ended with her lying on the bed with a cloth over her eyes while he bleached down the kitchen.

Tonight, he refused to go down that road.

"Emma, stop this," he said, his voice becoming firm. "You need to stop."

Her eyes flew open in confusion, and he tilted her chin gently, so that she was looking right at him.

"The cut isn't deep. You are okay. There's a little blood; I just wiped it up. Your finger won't even need stitches. You need to be more careful next time, okay? But everything's fine, so you can get up and finish the salad. I'm going to set the table."

His voice was calm, but there was an edge in it, a pitying, peevish edge, and she frowned for a moment before her lip went dangerously out into a pout.

"It's NOT okay, Will!" She looked down at her finger and then back up at his face. "This is not okay; I am not okay. I can't finish the salad. I need to lie down," and she stumbled up, trying to get on her feet, but not quite making it due to her dizziness. She sat down hard on the tile, her face crumpling again at the sudden pain, and began to cry.

He sighed in annoyance. "Emma. You are a grown woman. You need to get over this." He stuck out a hand to help her, but she ignored him, getting on her feet again for the second time, and this time making it.

Emma turned to him, her eyes blazing, tears dripping down her face, and simultaneously hated herself and him. "I can't just get over it, Will. Don't you think that if I could, I would choose to?" Her accent was strong, almost the strongest he'd ever heard it, her consonants bitten off in anger, and he had the grace to look slightly shamefaced.

"Emma – "

"No. No, I'm sorry, Will. I just can't do this right now."

"But that's the thing, Em, you can never do it right now!" He slammed the towel down onto the tile; it thwacked weakly against the ceramic. "You can't talk about it, and you can't deal with it, and we have to leave ten minutes earlier in the morning because you need to scrub down the door handles, and we can't ever drink or eat dairy, and you won't get help . . . and maybe I can't do it. Maybe I just can't do it, either."

She stood there, framed in the doorway; her candy-coloured clothing sad against the tension of the room, and she looked down at her shaking hands, clenched hard together. Two tears dripped from her eyes to the tile, spattering there beside the towel. She looked up.

"Well," and her voice was soft. "I'm so sorry to have inconvenienced you, then."

And then she left.

//~//

He wasn't going to go after her this time. He was sick of being the knight in shining armour, and the one that always bent in this relationship. It'd been three months and he was always the one to come to her rescue. He'd picked her out of mud puddles; he'd handed her Sani-wipes in strange bathrooms and held her hand tightly in new restaurants. And whereas before, there was always an element of love behind it, tonight all he feels is resentment. Fear, even. Because what has he done to her?

He pushed down the feeling until an hour passed, and then he got off the couch, got his keys, and went out to find her.

Emma still keeps her apartment a few blocks away, ready for emergencies like this, and it's not unheard of for her to walk hours at night, daydreaming, briskly picking out her way to Will's apartment, or back home to her own. He rarely lets her walk, now, but Lima's a relatively safe town, so he isn't as worried about her walking as he would be if she lived further away.

The rain beat down on the car; it ran in streams over the shining blue in the streetlights, and he had second thoughts about going out. She wouldn't have walked home tonight; she would have gotten a cab, or even gone somewhere else to cool down. He knows her – he knows her issues with the rain, and he feels even worse, driving her to leave. Hurting her feelings . . . hurting her heart, and she's never gone out of her way to hurt him, ever.

Just as he was about to give up, he drove by the school and saw a small figure leaning against one of the football posts in the field. Just at the last, he pulled hard to the left and turned into the student parking lot, pulling up a few feet from the edge of the field.

She was standing there, her face turned to the sky, letting the rain flow over her, letting it drip along the part of her red hair, straightening out her curls, trickling down over her nose and off her chin, mixing with the tears that flow unchecked down her face, and she didn't move, not even when he opened the door and came up right beside her.

She didn't say anything; he didn't try to ask any questions. But she turned to him in the pouring rain, the silver coins spinning against the midnight puddles in the field, and her gaze said it all – she asked him why without words. He didn't have any excuse to give her – and he couldn't stand the fact that she was punishing herself for what he did to her.

So he kissed her, instead.

The rain tasted like freshness on his mouth and on his face; she leant into him, letting him feel her grief, her desperation; he held her tightly, in his arms, and took the brunt of the rain as she buried her face in his slick coat. He couldn't believe he let her walk out. She couldn't believe he came after her after what he said.

And none of it was mended; not at that time. There's a certain breach of trust that creates a rift between couples; when things get said and they may have needed saying, but maybe not when there's hurt there, when there's sensitivity. And though it's a valuable learning experience, it leaves scars.

He can't believe he had the audacity to open her scars again, when they were barely healed in the first place.

She can't believe that after that, she was willing to give him a second chance.

There's something about rain, though, and the desperation of needing to be loved, that turns even the most irrational beliefs to rationality.

In the end, she let him help her into the car. He buckled her seatbelt, kissed her wet face, and drove her back to the apartment.

//~//

They slept in separate beds that night; he took the couch and she curled in the queen, sniffling into a pillow, one against her back, another against her stomach. He heard her tears in the bedroom, and it took everything he had not to get up and go to her.

In the end, she came to him, balancing on the side of the couch, her back warm against his stomach. She looked like an angel in the pale light from the window, but he wasn't asleep and she didn't say anything at first.

They listened to their measured breaths on the air, and then she spoke, her voice soft, steady.

"I did get help. I've been to different forms of therapy, six different times, since I was eight."

He said nothing; more breaths fell on the still air.

"I stopped going, Will, because it stopped helping. I went as far as I could with that route. And you know, I'm doing pretty well, all things considered."

Her voice caught in her throat; he heard a slight click, as she swallowed whatever was there and tried to remain rational. But the next sentence had tears in it, and he took her hand in one of his warm ones. She didn't pull away.

"I can't apologize for who I am, Will, because who I am is who I've always presented myself as. I've never lied to you about the severity of my . . . problem. And I'm not asking you to rescue me every time. I'm just asking," - and here the click in her throat again – "for maybe a little understanding?"

He sighed, feeling tears behind his own eyes, and opened his mouth to speak, but her cool finger against his lips stopped him, and instead, he just listened.

"I hate this, okay? I hate this as much as you do, and it's worse for me, because I live with it every day. I try so hard . . . and I need you to consider if you can deal with this, because sometimes, I can't. And you're the first person who's tried."

Her voice broke then, and she sobbed, the harsh sound in the quiet house. He pulled her next to him. This time she let him spread the blanket over her. He cradled her against his stomach, rubbed her crossed arms, and she cried for a few minutes, letting the stress and fear of the day flow.

He breathed into her sweet-smelling hair, still with the slight freshness of rain, and began to hum under his breath, one of her favourite ballads. She relaxed in his arms, and he, still with his face in her hair, apologized.

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I am so sorry."

She kissed one of his hands, examined his fingers in the light from the window, and sighed shakily.

"It's fine. We'll start again. From the beginning."

"Okay."

He held her close to him, measuring her breaths, and she examined his hands and the shape of his fingers before turning on her other side to look at his face.

"I can't be perfect," she whispered.

He kissed her nose. "I just want you to be okay."

She snuggled closer to him.

"That, I can try to do."

She fell asleep to the sound of the rain and he traced her back, wondering, once again, how he got so lucky to love a woman like Emma Pillsbury.

.#cutid1


End file.
